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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25989421">I'd Suffer Hell If You Told Me (What You'd Do To Me Tonight)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSouthernFalconer/pseuds/TheSouthernFalconer'>TheSouthernFalconer</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Arcana (Visual Novel)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ballroom Dancing, Fade to Black, First Meetings, Implied Sexual Content, Light Angst, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mercenary Lucio (The Arcana), Pillow Talk, Pre-Canon, Sexual Tension</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 12:29:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,254</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25989421</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSouthernFalconer/pseuds/TheSouthernFalconer</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"Up close, Sergio admired the beautiful sharp planes of the young man’s face, the winged brows, the pink lips and the smudged warpaint angled around his high cheekbones. The King was taller than him, and older, by at least a decade, if not more. And yet, this fresh faced boy met his gaze with a self-possessed, insistent haughtiness that Sergio would have found grating, had it not looked quite so ravishing. "</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Lucio (The Arcana)/Original Male Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>I'd Suffer Hell If You Told Me (What You'd Do To Me Tonight)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“That’s quite alright, Captain.” Up close, Sergio admired the beautiful sharp planes of the young man’s face, the winged brows, the pink lips and the smudged warpaint angled around his high cheekbones. The King was taller than him, and older, by at least a decade, if not more. And yet, this fresh faced boy met his gaze with a self-possessed, insistent haughtiness that Sergio would have found grating, had it not looked quite so ravishing. His posture accentuated and exaggerated the perfect arch of his back, the slender waist and the straight shoulders. Sergio took the Captain’s pale hand in his, and brought it to his lips, his moustache barely brushing it. “<em>This </em>is how we do things here.” <em>Ah. </em>The Captain’s smile faltered, his eyes widened. A pink flush bloomed delightfully across his cheeks. Was he <em>blushing</em>? “Right,” he said. “I’ll keep that in mind for the next time.” Sergio laughed. He could not place the accent perfectly, what with the Captain’s borderline obnoxious nasal twang. But it was still there, something thick and guttural and alien to himself, the traces of which he’d heard only from those of the Deep South, from the hungry tribesmen and women with their pact marks and secrets, who were diffident with each other, and ruthlessly hostile to the sovereigns of this side. “What is your name, Captain?” He asked, curiously.</p><p>There was a pause. “Montag,” he answered, a wariness about his tone. Sergio waited for a family name, a tribe marker, anything. But nothing came. “Captain Montag.” he said. The King did not press the matter, simply nodded. “Well, Captain Montag, we are beyond pleased with the services of you and your company. I, King Sergio, and my Kingdom of Lasinthe, commend you. You may name your price, anything you require to my Head Vizier, Mantar, and consider it done.” At the mention of price and rewards, Montag’s grip on his sword hilt finally loosened. “Yeah, I know. You would have lost many, many soldiers if you hadn’t done it my way.” He said smugly.</p><p>He heard another disapproving murmur rise from the Court, but he knew better than to disagree with Montag. (“You fancy swordsmen couldn’t get the job done without us.” He’d spat during one of their strategy meetings. “Your people don’t know how to fight for your lives, and how everything’s fair game when your neck is on the line, and it fucking shows.” He’d relentlessly pushed methods and tactics that his Generals had considered dishonorable, inviting the ire of many of his advisors. In the end, however, all of it had paid off in a splendid victory, and Sergio could not help but admire the frankness with which he refrained from sugarcoating the madness of War with pretences of method and honor).</p><p> “Anyway, Your Majesty, you said I could ask for anything, and consider it done?” He asked, cocking an eyebrow. Sergio nodded, “Naturally”. Montag dropped his gaze. “I really, <em>really</em> like your shoes. With the heels,” he said, pointing towards the golden brown pair he was sporting. “Can I have a pair of those for the party tonight?” Sergio laughed outright.</p><p>
  <em>You little minx, how could you be so insufferable and yet so strangely endearing? </em>
</p><p>“Consider that done, too.” He affirmed. He moved forward again, placing his hand lightly on the Captain’s shoulder. “And please, call me Sergio, should we meet each other in private.” The meaning was not lost on the mercenary, and he colored deeper, looking up at Sergio through pale lashes. “Consider <em>that </em>done, Your Majesty. “ A pause, and then, more briskly, as though collecting himself, “I’ll name our reward to your Head Vizier.” He clicked his heels, and behind him, his company fell in attention. “As for the price of-</p><p>Sergio watched the man intently as he spoke. Although he was looking at Mantar as he spoke, those silver eyes wandered back to him, a barely veiled mischief glinting in them. Something warm and pleasant bloomed in the King’s chest.</p><p> </p><p>*</p><p>Victory Banquets in Sergio’s country were largely somber affairs, the conversations turning to politics and further strategies. But this particular skirmish had subdued several stubbornly quarrelsome voices at the borderlands, and had secured so easy and quick a victory that the fatigue of war had not fully set in, as it had done the few other times Sergio was forced into combat. He tired easily of it, did not see a point to it except in absolute necessity, and did not see a reason to rejoice in it. But tonight, his heart was lighter, and there was a spring in his step. He had even switched out the stateliness of his russet and silver celebratory robes into something brighter, shining deep gold and rich purple. He had his hair dyed a fresh coat of glowing copper, done up in more elaborate braids than usual, a few gemstones shimmering between them. An upward flick of the eyeliner (russet, to match the color of his eyes) in true Namar Satrinava fashion (How the man would laugh and nudge and cry of excitement, if he’d seen him now), and a few rhinestones dotting his eyelids, and Sergio felt more youthful than he had since whispers of the skirmish had begun.</p><p>Or perhaps it was Montag.</p><p>As it turned out, the man made as good a reveler as he did a Captain. Even better, perhaps, Sergio mused, as he slapped diplomats on the back and hung off the King’s arm, pink-cheeked with liquor. When the rewards had been dealt with, and money had changed hands, Montag had dropped the power-play and the assertions to simply, bask in a sort of unfettered, giddy joy that seemed to elevate everyone’s mood. He’d been endearingly shiny, dressed to the nines in bright reds and golds, (“King! Your tailor is a <em>master</em>!”), a heavy golden chain wrapped around his pale neck. Anyone else would have looked atrocious in the outfit, but whether it be by personal bias or the sheer charm that Montag had exuded, the young Captain glittered conspicuously wherever he went, and certainly seemed to relish the attention.</p><p>He bounced with excitement, making easy conversation with nobles and help alike, inquiring after gemstones and clothes and skincare routines, fascinated by everything, trying out all kinds of food- steaks, mashes, gravies, soups, before happily settling for carrying around a bowl of cookies. He drew stares, Sergio noticed, some of intrigue, some of contempt, some of confusion, but absolutely no one could look away, not with the presence he asserted. It was only when the dancing began, a slow, sophisticated waltz to begin with, that Sergio could even get a word in sideways. As the strings played, he drew Montag close, placing his hand on his slender waist. He looked thrown, a little, and suddenly out of depth. He guided the Captain’s arm to his shoulder, and interlaced their fingers with the other. Montag chuckled nervously, his winsome cockiness faltering.</p><p>“Not to worry, Captain.” Sergio said graciously, “I shall lead us well.”</p><p>“Hey, I <em>do </em>know how to dance,” he griped, but let Sergio lead them both anyway.</p><p>“You <em>do </em>carry yourself well in the heels, you know,” said Sergio, as he twirled them a graceful circle around the floor. “Even with all that wine in your system, any novice would have stumbled a hundred times over.”</p><p>Montag raised a sharp eyebrow, “Do I <em>look </em>like a novice to you, Your Majesty?” he asked.</p><p>Sergio laughed, “I only mean it as a compliment, of course.”</p><p>He perked up at that, pleased. “I have <em>great </em>balance,” he said. “When I-“</p><p>“I see.” Without warning, Sergio grasped him by the waist, and picked him up, spun him in a quick circle, and set him down. Montag swayed, but steadied himself before he could fall right over. “<em>Hey,</em>” he whined, “You should <em>warn </em>me, before you do something like that!” He was flushed that bright pink again, evidently flustered. Sergio laughed again, by <em>gods, </em>he’s adorable. “Where’s the fun in that, hm?” He released him, but Montag did not fall, but held himself taut, and leaned gently back in time for Sergio to catch him again. He smirked up at the King, and had the audacity to wink. “Great balance, see?”</p><p>“I agree,” Sergio conceded, impressed. “You’d make a fine dancer, with those reflexes.”</p><p>“I <em>am </em>a fine dancer,” he said smugly. “<em>This </em>kind of dancing’s just boring.”              </p><p>Sergio quirked an eyebrow, and drew him closer, until they were touching, chest to chest. He leaned forward, his beard brushing Montag’s cheek. “And what kind of dancing are you willing to show me, Captain?”</p><p>Montag’s fingers danced up Sergio’s shoulder, his fingers toying at the silk of his collar. His voice was a wicked whisper when he said, “The fun kind.”</p><p>As if on cue, the music shifted. Percussion boomed across the ballroom, and the beat thickened. Montag pulled away from Sergio, now taking him by the hand, “That’s more like it!” He crowed. He grabbed the King’s arms, and spun them both around at an indecent speed. Sergio feared for his life, his robes, the safety of his crown, but before they could get too dizzy, Montag had let him go, and was waving his arms over his head, bobbing his head to the beat like a fool, and laughing with so much glee that Sergio could not help but follow along. He hummed along to the song, taking Sergio by the fingertips and leading him in a mad chase around the ballroom. On occasion, he ducked out only to take swigs of wine and moonshine, or leap barefeet around with his soldiers like a badly behaved monkey. And then he was back in Sergio’s arms giddy and so radiant that Sergio could hardly see anyone else. In a while, the music shifted again to something slower and sweeter, and by then the Captain was pliant and giggly, high off of dancing and who knew what else.</p><p>“I love dancing,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper. “I ­­<em>love </em>parties.”</p><p>“I can see that,” Sergio agreed.  Boldened, he tucked a strand of wild golden hair behind Montag’s ear. “What else do you love, Montag?” he asked.</p><p>Montag met his gaze, his lips quirking upward. “Why don’t you try and find out, Sergio?” he asked. “I know you’ve been looking at me all night.”</p><p>Sergio threaded his fingers beneath his chin, tilting it upwards. His lips barely ghosted Montag’s sharp jaw. “That pleases me, as you would have to be looking at me to know that.”</p><p>Montag shivered, but did not yield. “I don’t have to look at you to know.” He said, although his voice was thick and heated. “You’re not the first King who’s wanted a piece of me. <em>Everyone </em>likes looking at me.”</p><p>“I see,” said Sergio easily. “Then it seems I have nothing to convince you of.”  He let go, pulled away from Montag, and walked off without a backward glance.</p><p>He heard Montag yelp in indignant confusion. “Hey, King! Sergio!”</p><p>Chuckling, Sergio quickened his pace walk past the ballroom. Montag pushed through the crowd, grabbing his wrist. “Where are you going?” he asked, sounding almost upset.</p><p>Sergio glanced back at him. “Well, you’re sufficiently convinced of how much I want to <em>look </em>at you, Montag.” He said, hiding his smile. He pulled his wrist away, and walked further. At the juncture where the ballroom tapered into an imposing corridor, Montag caught him again. “No,” he said petulantly. “I’m <em>not </em>convinced. Get back here and convince me.”</p><p>
  <em>Precious. </em>
</p><p>He flipped his wrist, catching Montag off guard, and pulled him close again. Despite the pout and the petulance, the Captain’s eyes were positively sparkling with excitement. “Whatever shall we do about that, hmm? You’re <em>plenty </em>full of self-regard, perhaps I could help convince you of other things,” he asked, running his finger’s up Montag’s back, raking his long nails over his coat before barely slipping it off. “I <em>could </em>convince you of what a <em>rogue </em>you are,” he ran his lips over Montag’s shoulder and neck, biting gently into the skin. He hissed, and Sergio smiled at the shiver running through his body. “How <em>insufferable </em>you are,” his fingers tightened around Montag’s waist in a bruising grip, “How absolutely <em>desperate </em>you are for attention,” he nibbled at the skin around Montag’s clavicle, watching in satisfaction as a mark bloomed there. “You’re just a little thing, aren’t you, Captain?” Montag let out a whimper. “And here, maybe in front of my guards and my diplomats out there at the ballroom, I can put you in your place, you impudent, insolent <em>brat</em>.” Montag panted desperately, but his fight was far from gone.</p><p>“You think you <em>can, </em>old man?” he sneered. “After <em>you </em>hired <em>me, </em>to fight <em>your </em>battles for you, you think you can put me in my place?”</p><p>The challenge in his tone shattered Sergio’s resolve. With a growl, he grabbed Montag by the collar, (a golden brooch clattered noisily to the floor). When he kissed him, angry and heavy, his hand around his throat to shut him up, he swore he could feel the Captain’s unbearable grin against his mouth.</p><p>*</p><p> Sergio hoisted himself upon an elbow, watching Montag stretch happily, lazily beside him. His skin glowed bright in the moonlight streaming through the windows to his chamber, lighting up the bites and welts and bruises he’d weathered and relished and begged for. Initially, Sergio had been wary of upsetting his admittedly minor healing injuries, of being too rough, but Montag waved him away, unabashedly demanding to be ripped apart, “It’s just a flesh wound,” he’d whined.</p><p>“As opposed to what?” Sergio had chuckled. “A soul wound?”,  laughing as his pout deepened. Now, the King ran his fingers through the ridges of his older battle scars. Every time he discovered another one, Montag had a story of gore and valor to go with it.</p><p>(“This? Got stabbed in the back with a dagger, on the road. Big lady, thrice my size, should have seen her after I cut her into ribbons,” he’d cackled. Or in a stage whisper “I was mauled by a monstrous boar in the tundra, see? Those are the marks of its horns. A swing of my axe, right into its belly and its guts spilled out-“)</p><p>Sergio saw the gooseflesh rising on his skin, and asked, “Aren’t you cold?”</p><p>Montag grinned at him. “Oh, yeah, I thought you’d wanted to look at me though,” he threw his arm back, raised his neck, arching his body invitingly and batting his lashes, and Sergio chuckled. “You fool, I don’t want you to catch a cold,” He covered the man with one of his fur-and-silk quilts.</p><p>“Oh, Oh <em>wow.” </em>Montag closed his eyes with a groan, sinking into the furs, the bravado leeching out of him. “This feels great, this, <em>this </em>is life.” Unable to stop himself, Sergio leaned in to kiss his forehead, smiling against his skin. Montag blushed easily at this, he mused. As filthy and mouthy and unashamed as he gets, tender touches and affection manage to get him tongue tied. He’d been bewildered, when, after both of them were spent beyond a doubt, eyes drooping and limbs like jelly, that Sergio had untied his restraints and kissed the marks on his wrists, that he had soothed lotion over his skin, that he had sent for sweets and cheese and wine. “I shall gift you one of these, before you leave. Perfumed and embroidered with your initials, would that suit you?”</p><p>Montag nodded eagerly. “Ha! Why not?” Sergio traced his cheekbones with his long fingers, running them down the ridge of his nose.</p><p>The Captain playfully snapped his jaws like a hound, trying to bite. Sergio cooed. “Aren’t you precious?”</p><p>The grin slipped off his face for a moment. “No.”</p><p>“<em>No?” </em>He reached over to smother his face in kisses again, feeling his cheeks heat up furiously. “I beg to differ.”</p><p>“Your Majesty, I spill guts on the daily.” He deadpanned. “I’m not precious, I’m strong.”</p><p>“Indeed you are.” Sergio mused. “A life on the battlefield is far beyond the realm of my comprehension, or my ability.”</p><p>“You should see more of me in battle, then.” Montag leaned up to press a kiss against Sergio’s jaw. “They can never get the best of me. Whatever they do to me, I can do worse. I’ll always do worse.”</p><p>Sergio sighed. He wondered how long a time Montag had been intimately acquainted with war. He was too young, too tender, despite everything, to speak of violence in the manner of seasoned veterans. The man laid out in front of him wore only the barest traces of the beast of the battlefield-bards’ songs. Sergio would have forgotten it entirely, had it not been for these proclamations he spoke so casually, the scars and the words he wore far, far too lightly for the King to ever feel entirely at ease around them. Montag’s quiet surety was far more unsettling than his proud, boastful declarations and gory histories. A chill ran down Sergio’s spine, and he wished to change the subject. This was why he invested all the time and energy that he did into diplomacy.</p><p> “Long hair would be lovely on you.” he observed, brushing Montag’s golden hair back from his face.</p><p>Montag melted into his touch, basking in the compliment. “It did, I had it when- back when I was a kid. We wore it up in warrior braids, you know, when you-“ he fell silent. “It’s just a thing we did.”</p><p>“Why don’t you grow it out? Because of the field?” he asked.</p><p>Montag scoffed. “Nah, with those braids, I’d gone on a <em>ton </em>of raids. I chopped it off- uh- before my eighteenth birthday.” He grimaced. “Don’t really want to grow it back anymore, doesn’t remind me of good things.”</p><p>Sergio rubbed his cheek with the back of his hand, soothing. “You grew up in the South, yes? I could tell, by the accent.”</p><p>Montag made a sound of disgust. “I’m trying to drop it.”         </p><p>“Why? It’s quite alright.”</p><p>He shrugged. “I don’t like it. Don’t like the South, or being from there.” His tone had an air of finality, and Sergio felt a little guilty for pushing the subject. He wondered what would have happened, why he could have left at such a young age, why he flinches so at the mere mention of it.</p><p>“Alright, what <em>do </em>you like?” he asked, placating.</p><p>Montag eyed him warily. “Look, you’re great, but I really don’t think I can go again-“</p><p>Sergio laughed, shocked. “I am not talking about <em>sex</em>, darling.” He chided. “What do you like, in general? Apart from your wartime exploits?”</p><p>Montag blinked. “<em>More </em>wartime exploits,” he said impishly. Sergio booped his nose in retaliation. “Well you <em>do </em>like wine,” he said. “And my blankets, clearly.”</p><p>The Captain hummed. “I like to hunt. Especially with my hounds-“ he sighed fondly, “I love my hounds, all of them. And-“ He frowned “Soft beds, makeup, hot water baths, silk and gold-“ He looked away now, watching the stars shimmering through the window. “I haven’t been around coasts much, but I’ve been there enough to know the way the sun looks when it shines over the sea. It’s warm.” His gaze turned a wistful. “I like being warm. Really warm. When I make a lot of money, I’ll never not be warm.” Sergio listened intently, tracing gentle patterns on the man’s chest as he spoke. Montag turned to him with an odd look in his eyes, as though he’d forgotten for a moment that he was there. There was a queer downturn to his lips- Sergio kissed it away. When he pulled back, Montag was smiling. Sergio did not remember a time when he had to long for warmth.  As Crown Prince, and then as King, his every need had been anticipated and catered to. But he had read enough of the world to know that simple pleasures such as warmth, such as sleeping in, and bright, coastal sunshine, were unheard of in the unforgiving wastelands of the Deep South. His heart went out to the young man.“Then you should travel to Prakra,” he suggested. “The climate is quite tropical, however, the question remains if it is <em>too </em>warm for your constitution.” Montag tilted his head, considering. “I’m a self made man, I can weather anything. Haven’t had a job there, no. I <em>have </em>met one of the Princesses, though.”</p><p>“Nahara?” He guessed.</p><p>Montag stared at him, surprised. “Yeah, how do you know?”</p><p>“We have a long history of allyship, my Kingdom and the Prakran Empire, and an even closer bond of friendship. Princess Nahara tends to migrate from place to place, seeking instruction in the martial arts.” He explained. Montag looked impressed. “Yeah, she trained for a bit under an old Captain I used to work for. Never knew she was a Princess until this huge old owl turned up with the Royal Seal of Prakra, and then a messenger, calling her Your Highness. I like her, she’s great, and she isn’t at all a snob.” Sergio chuckled. “Am <em>I </em>a snob?” he asked. Montag shrugged again. “No, but if you are I wouldn’t blame you,” he said. “You’ve got a powerful Kingdom, and you pay well. I can’t stand nobles who don’t pay well, and I don’t spare them.”</p><p>“Are we allowed to be snobs when we could afford to, then?” Sergio asked, amused.</p><p>“Sure, why not? I bet <em>I’d </em>be a snob, when I make all that money.” Montag said, dreamily. He rolled over to his belly, sheets wrapping around his waist. He tugged at the gemstones that remained in Sergio’s hair, letting him lie back down. He ran a hand through his hair, gripping and massaging his scalp. The King let his eyes flutter shut. Montag went on. “I’m going to be King someday too. Or Duke, or Count<em>.</em> I’ll live in a Palace, and there’ll be battalions at my command, wearing my flag, and I’ll throw parties, with fountains of wine, and a menagerie for all my pets and noone can-“ he caught himself with a wince. “-and everyone will remember me. Every street will have statues of me.”</p><p>Sergio opened his eyes with a grin. “Montag the Magnificent, yes?”</p><p>“Ugh. No.” Montag rolled his eyes. “I <em>hate </em>the name Montag. I’m going to find a new name by then. D’you have any ideas?” he asked. Sergio paused, stroking Montag’s cheek thoughtfully. “Vesuvian names are quite pleasing, so are the Neviv ones. As for Lasinthe-“ he wondered. “Alejandro, is a common one. So is Dante, hmm,” he watched Montag’s face. “A name fit for a King, you are <em>no </em>Dante, absolutely. Not a Valerio, either. Ludwig, Leonardo, Lucio-“ he studied the Captain, young and bright and dangerous, and yet strangely, mysteriously fragile. “Lucio would suit you, I believe.”</p><p>“I like the sound of that.” Montag smiled. “What does it mean?”</p><p>“He who brings light.”</p><p>Montag’s eyes widened, and he mouthed the name to himself a few times, sounding it out. The smile he gave Sergio rivaled the starlight catching the gemstones inlaid into the chamber’s walls. “I’ve never heard a name that means anything like that.” He whispered. “We had names on the day we were born, meaning the season, the phase of the moon, the time of the hunt-“ He shook his head. “He who brings light. That sounds awesome. <em>Lucio </em>the-“ He frowned. “Sergio, back me up here.”</p><p>And the King indulged him, again, if only to see him smile once more that way. “Lucio the Legendary. Bringer of light.”</p><p>He whistled. “Damn, that turns me right back on.”</p><p>Sergio swatted him on the shoulder. “You delightful menace.”</p><p>Montag snickered. “Thanks, Sergio. I’ll think about it for, um-a minute. It is <em>my </em>name, it has to be ­­<em>perfect</em>.” A moment of pause, and then- “ Actually, can you re-christen me, part of my payment, and-“</p><p>Sergio drew him into his arms, engulfing him in an embrace. “Hush, and go to sleep. A man mustn't take as drastic a decision as a name in the throes of wine and post coital bliss. You can think of it again, after we rise.”</p><p>“Sergio,” Montag’s voice was muffled against his chest. “I’ve never let that stop me before.”</p><p>The King did not dignify that with a response, only held him tighter. He hummed softly, absently, an old Lasinthi tune that he did not remember the lyrics to. He drummed his fingers against the nape of Montag’s neck. Montag froze for a moment, going ramrod straight so quickly that Sergio worried that he might have overstepped a boundary. With a gentle, uncharacteristic shyness, however, Montag wrapped strong arms around his torso, reciprocating. He could hear the man’s rapid heartbeat against his chest, could feel his shortened breaths against his neck. He could feel his eyes flutter shut against his skin, and back open again. He seemed confused, disoriented, and yet, unwilling to let go. He sniffled once, twice, and Sergio wondered if the man was about to burst into tears, but then he fell silent, trembling ever so slightly in his hold.</p><p>“What is it?” He asked, combing his fingers through his hair.</p><p>Montag’s voice was hoarse when he answered, tightening his grip as though he wanted to bring Sergio even closer.“’s good, Sergio.” He let out a delicate laugh, small and sharp as a shard of glass.“Weird, but good.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Title from Hozier's "Dinner and Diatribes."</p><p>Everything belongs to Nix Hydra. Thank you, Nix Hydra.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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